Sometimes it doesn't take much.An afternoon of burnished hoursthat don't go together,and him disbanded by himself,sitting in various chairs,but with a body or soul in each.

In a part of the room it is night.Elsewhere, the past, holidays and war.On the ceiling the sea touches the luminous beach,and no hand guiding all this,no ringmaster, no computer,just him, that same self-samesomeone, the disassembledunreunited man,in conversation with himself, dreaming and thinking,present, invisible.Someone who would eat and sleep later.Someone with a watch and shoes.Someone who left.Someone who was going to leave.Someone who would not go yet.